Turn Me tender
by SapSorrow
Summary: Long, graphic Sweenett story - this is a new version of my original story by this name that I accidentally deleted, this version is much more graphic!
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so I did a really stupid thing and deleted this entire fic from ficcynet, it was really long and had so many lovely reviews - thank you everyone - but sadly they're all lost! I'm trying to salvage it but it's gonna take awhile, so far though here's the frst few chapters back - they are much more M rated than they used to be as the old version was edited and this isn't - but maybe that's a good thing!**

**Turn Me Tender**

_"It's happened again, the colourless sky_

_Has dimmed me again and I've run out of why -_

_And the pledge and vow is you find if you seek_

_But what if you try and find nothing but bleak?_

_Yet you're still my cryptic and cherishing prayer_

_With serenity, kisses that soothe and repair -_

_So turn me tender again, fold me into you_

_Turn me tender again and mould me to new_

_Faith lost its promise and bruised me deep blue_

_Turn me tender again through a union with you._

_And laments have a purpose and laments have a cost_

_A requiem playing gathers the lost_

_It sometimes tastes sour the sweetness of hope_

_When the blizzards are raging on this lovers slope_

_Yet I don't want to freeze inside or out_

_For it's you that dissolves these cold walls of doubt."_

_So turn me tender again, fold me into you_

_Turn me tender again and mould me to new_

_Faith lost its promise and bruised me deep blue_

_Turn me tender again through a union with you._

_- Martyn Joseph_

_Chapter 1; My Broken Spirit I Bring To You_

**Sweeney:**

It was a deep dark blue outside when he realised that she loved him.

It hadn't taken long - and really he should have seen it straight away. But he had been so prepared for her not to even like him any more. And, after all, he had hardly got over the shock of seeing her again, so like she had always been - but then so different. He wondered if she had always been so crazy and he just hadn't noticed. Had her eyes always been so wide and wild and trembling? Had she always been so dangerous - so soft, so firm, so hungry, so ...intoxicating? His mind had almost collapsed with it. He had almost turned straight back out the door. It was too familiar; it all rushed back at him too quickly - sitting here, right here, with her just there. She gave him no time, she was too quick for him, a startled bird he could never quite catch - before he knew it she was feeding him pie and chattering at him like she had always done.

When she led him through the shop to the room beyond he had almost felt angry. Did she do this with every strange man who walked through the door? He felt a surge of anger, even jealousy at the thought that she might allow to just anyone what he had craved so painfully and so silently for so long. The whore. The damned little whore, when had she become such a slut? Or had she always been and he had been too foolish and too gentlemanly to notice?

He had frowned, confused with himself. What did it matter to him how many men she had had? Why did he care to think he had a prior claim on her? What she did with that shameless, whorish, gorgeous little body of hers was her own business and meant nothing to him. Nevertheless, he had thrown his coat down abruptly, rudely, staking out her territory as his own, tense with the urge to mark her instantly as his, now that he could.

He had cried out against what had happened to Lucy because so strong a part of him had been glad that she was gone, dead and buried with her husband. So he had known what to say on hearing her speak that name which was no longer his.

"No. Not Barker. That man is dead. S'Todd now. Sweeney Todd."

He had looked at her closely, if not for long enough to let her know - terribly afraid that she would not like Sweeney Todd. he had been afraid of it ever since that man or beast, whatever he was, had been born. Maybe she would hate him - know him for what he now was and fear and despise him.

He had grown good at reading people and in her wide eyes he saw that she did know what he had become and feared but didn't despise him. In fact, if anything, he fancied he saw recognition flicker deep in those lovely eyes, speaking more eloquently than she really could, welcoming home a creature she had known even before he did.

Fifteen years. Fifteen bloody years of guilty lusting after a woman he had assumed he could never really have. Now she stood so close he could feel her breath on his neck, feel her bosom heave to touch him, warm in her hand, smell her and tingle with the warm, fluid ease with which her body bent towards him -

He could not face her. He had wanted her too long to allow it to be easy. There was something half shy in her fidgety movements, her voice so quick, trying too hard to sound casual -

"Nothing to be afraid of, love" -

Something pleading in her eyes, asking for a scrap of his heart -

"Could have sold them - but I didn't."

Was he just being mercenary the think that she must have loved him all this time, not to have done so? Suffering for him as he had suffered for her. He wondered if he could have survived if he had imagined he might never see her again, and felt perhaps he understood a little better the madness in her eyes. He almost pitied her - and that was good - pity could turn easily to disgust, to superiority. A superiority he needed to feel if he was ever to possess her as he ached to do.

There was so much he wanted to do to her. Fifteen years worth of imaginings, longings and plans. he hardly even knew where to start. He would drown if he looked at her and so he did not. Her love, that he had dreamt of so hopelessly, was given so easily that it frightened him - everything he had come back for given to him on the first day of his returning. he did not want to see, did not want to have to admit to happiness or to a feeling he had never truly known before. not like this. He had asked her to leave and seen the sweet submissive hurt with which she instantly obeyed him and heard his demon growl within him in response, in pleasure at her pain. And he knew that he could hurt her, could use her love to avoid his own, could have power over her and possess her completely and utterly until he no longer knew her from himself and so could become her and no longer this wretched beast who hungered for her - but something that he delighted in, something that he loved.

**Lovett:**

For a moment there she really had thought that she had seen a ghost. And she had known whose ghost too. Terror had flashed briefly in her eyes at the recurrence of that old nightmare; the one that had started out as a dream but had plagued her steadily into madness.

Yes, she had known him from the first, but it had been so hard. More than just hard; she had given him up for dead soon after the dreams had died away and with him had gone the last trace of her that she could have called good or sane.

For she had loved him even then, and had never tried to deny it to herself. Not Barker – she had been fond of him, yes, dearly, but she had loved the real man more than what he had tried to be to please his wife – maybe even to please himself.

Well, after all, she had never expected that she would fall in love with anybody ordinary, not even, necessarily, someone quite human. She often wondered if she hadn't just built up an ideal of him out of a few flickers in the eye of someone else – someone who was really, underneath, nothing more than a disappointingly good man after al. But to see him now she knew that it had not been so.

When he introduced himself, for so it must have been to him, she had done no more than incline her head slightly in acceptance. It had been like learning the name of someone you had known intimately for some time – so much so that you had never needed to ask. Sweeney Todd then, welcome home my love, at last. She wondered if it was wrong to be half glad that he had said that Barker was dead – for it meant that she could say the same of Lucy. It meant that the man she loved had survived. It meant that she could say he had come home to her and her alone.

For Sweeney Todd had always been hers, though he may not have known it.

Did she presume too much in offering him "Splendours you never have dreamed"? She wondered if he heard and understood what she meant. Wondered that she should feel slightly strange at offering herself so soon – it wasn't as though he was the first with whom she had done so. But it had been some time now; ever since she had baulked at the coldness of those random couplings that failed to fill the whole his absence had left. Sometimes she wondered if that hole hadn't been hollowed out of her brain as well, being filled and rotted further every day with gin.

Did she presume that he then could find any joy in someone he did not love, or did she dare to think that perhaps he did – or at least could – love her now? She didn't know. And after all, maybe he had had those dreams too – but she doubted it, pushing the thought away with painful practicality. No. he hardly even looked at her.

She hurt with not telling him the full truth about those razors, that he handled so lovingly, with a gaze of such delight. How she had rescued them, not from the authorities as she had said, but from Lucy, who she had caught taking them to sell, to pay the rent. How she had snapped at her to forget the fucking rent, later hiding the set beneath the floor boards while Lucy was out, knowing that she would not look for them twice. How, really there had been plenty of takers for the room when it lay empty but that she had been unable to rent it out, keeping it, despite everything, in the hope that he would one day, somehow come back. Or keeping it as a shrine to him – and that she wouldn't have admitted, even to herself.

How again, so often while he was away, she had come up here to look at them. Guiltily admiring each one – feeling she was trespassing a little into his life. She wondered if he would be angry to know it; how she had kept them polished, checking the catches and replacing the velvet in the box. Apparently he hadn't noticed and she had feigned awe at the beauty of the shine in the blades; the only time she had ever pretended anything to him.

She had ached for him when she left him that evening. Ached with a strange jealousy towards those figures carved into the silver, the way he had caressed them with those beautiful, long fingered hands. Dreaming, as she drifted into sleep, of those hands upon her own body – dreaming of being his razor.

**Sweeney:**

"Will you be alright then Mr T?" she asked that first night, lingering half nervously in the doorway, as he settled into his chair. He could sleep there as well as anywhere, but wondered what else she might have had in mind. He wanted so much to say no, to take her and fuck her with all the force of fifteen years of wanting her - and then settle down to sleep in her arms. He wanted so badly to touch her, taste her, beat her, rape her - find out if all those fantasies even came close to the real delight of her body.

"Yes" he rasped, gruffly, and turned his face away. He heard the door click to softly, but didn't need to know that she had gone, taking with her all the warmth she radiated. Still, the soft scent of her lingered in the room and he groaned aloud with it.

He had suffered, damn it, so why shouldn't she? Like hell was he going to give her what she wanted the instant he arrived! Besides, The longer he waited the more violently he would give in when he finally took her; the more he could hurt her with it. Maybe she would like that? The idea filled him with a grim sort of pleasure.

He knew how sound carried in these buildings and bit back his cries as he fucked her hard in his mind, before drifting fretfully into a broken sleep.

He dreamt. For the first time in fifteen years, a dream that was not black and red and back- breakingly aching. He dreamt that he awoke to find this room as it had always been, dusky though, in candlelight, and the chair where it was now; staining the room's rosy perfection. And his wife, kneeling over him in the chair, her hair unbound, falling over his face in soft fiery waves - it really was his wife, but it was her - his tormentor, whispering words he could not hear though he saw her lips move with dream - like slowness. She pressed those lips against his, her skin warm and silvery - gold in the dream light. He moaned at her touch but could not move. He could only watch as she slowly undressed, smiling, revealing breasts as perfect as he had always imagined, her nipples hard and ripe, begging him to bite at them.

Suddenly the dream skewed sideways and in the shift he was now on top of her on the floor, ripping feverishly at the last of her clothes. His razor had appeared in his hand, pressed hard against her throat. her beautiful eyes were deep dark pits, and she writhed beneath him like a snake. His fingers raked into her lovely flesh, cutting more deeply and sharply than they really could. He had razor blades for nails, and she was crying out, whimpering softly;

"Please Mr T, you're hurting me"

"Good" he growled, unspeakable hard against her helpless little form. He kissed her savagely and there was blood in her mouth, driving him insane with the rich, hot taste of her. The instant he plunged his suffering prick into her she broke apart like glittering dust in a shower of flowers and flaming rain.

He awoke with a cry, spilling helplessly into his trousers with a shuddering moan. It took him a moment to realise where he was and that she was standing over him, gently shaking his shoulder to wake him. He started into wakefulness, ashamed and angry.

"Brought you breakfast love" she said.

**Sweeney:**

The last thing he wanted, he told himself, was to make her happy. How could he even have strayed so far from his purpose as to let his thoughts take these turns?

It was the look in her eyes that afternoon when he'd had her in the chair with the blade at her throat, a look he had comfortably taken at the time for fear.

It hadn't been fear. At least, not only that. It had nagged at him for the rest of the day. It had nagged at him when he had slit the first man's throat, sharpening the pleasure of the act. It had nagged at him as he tried to soak the blood out of his shirt afterwards, knowing it would never be quite the same again but trying nonetheless. And it troubled him now as he sat at her table by the window, the way her eyes, so dark, like swirling skies filled with stars, had burned up at him, in fear yes, but also in lust.

He watched her across the room when he knew she wasn't looking. He knew when she wasn't because usually she was. He saw the way her eyes kept sliding back to him when she thought he wasn't looking. He wondered how she dared to let her feeling show so plainly in her face in so unwomanly a manner. And yet too womanly perhaps. He was surprised to find that she almost frightened him and delighted in the sensation.

Yet more delightful still was the hurt he saw when she looked away, afraid that he would see. He understood now that the apparent vacancy in his face, the distant brooding that showed him to ignore her utterly, was hurting her terribly. So he kept it up, enjoying her pain.

They continued in silence as the day darkened and the rain began to drum a stressful beat on the window outside, seeping in through the cracks. A passer by may have been struck by the apparent coldness between the man who sat glaring by the window and the woman attacking pastry at the table across the room as though it was that alone which was to blame for her frustration.

Finally she broke the silence and he noticed for the first time the effort it took her to smile and to make her voice as light as she could.

"Fancy a pie, Mr. T.?"

He glared at her and said nothing, unable to explain his sudden rush of anger at her apparently innocent question. She must have seen him looking! Had she noticed - how his eyes had travelled her face and down over the smoothness of her neck. Had she noticed the rising lust in his eyes; how he had ached throughout at the paleness of her throat, how vulnerable it was, the veins trembling just beneath the skin almost begging him to slice them. How he had been strumming the blade he toyed with gently against his leg, thinking, not of revenge but of drowning in her blood. And could she have been made happy by such knowledge? He was furious, watching how her breasts had heaved when she spoke (did she even know?), telling himself it was disgust that stirred within him, nothing more. Realising that even as he had convinced himself of utter disdain for the way she pretended not to watch him, he had been doing exactly the same, and that the discomfort he felt was not derision after all, but a thing far more easily removed.

His anger was the kick to move, unable to pretend any longer, angry even at the sad acceptance of his disdain with which she had turned away. And so she hardly knew he had moved until he had seized her from behind, one hand digging into the top of her arm and the other holding the razor to her throat once again.

He wanted her terribly. He could admit that now that he had her, even if he would not do so to her. He needed her painfully and had done so from the first. It was not merely the past that had drawn him back to this place, but her. He had stood there on the street, looking over at the shop, ready to turn away from that place and all the memories it contained, then he had seen her there in the window, just as she had always been. This moment had been there, waiting in the dark in his mind. from the first moment he had seen her, like a witch at work. And he knew that she could feel his lust, hard against her, and that her eyes would be shining with delight. But he didn't have to let her like it. The need to hurt her was almost stronger than the need to have her. To make her cry, to beg him for mercy she knew he wouldn't show. To make her scream and scream. She loved him too much. He didn't deserve it. He would make her want him less if only he could hurt her enough, and god, how he would enjoy hurting her!

She trembled in his arms, so soft and so warm he could hardly bear it, he buried his face in her hair drinking in the scent of her and dug his nails into her flesh so cruelly she would have bruises in the morning. She whimpered softly, afraid to move against the cold blade at her throat.

"Hush my love" he snarled against her ear, "Save your breath for screaming, you'll need it."

He trailed the blade down her throat gently, enough to slice the skin, leaving a crimson trail across the milk-white of her throat. Enough to make her cry out gently but not enough to make her scream, not yet. Her cry made him need her too much now to hurt her as much as he would have liked, and pushing the blade beneath her bodice he ripped it apart, spilling her breasts like water into his hands. He kissed her throat as he injured them, sending flowers of fire burning through her.

Her legs turned to water and, slippery in his hands, they gave and she sank to the filthy floor of the shop. That she gazed up at him, her arms outstretched, was all the excuse he needed to kick her savagely, again and again until she started to sob. Only then did he kneel over her, take her face in his hands and kiss her, tasting her tears, swallowing her sobs and delighting in their taste, his hands exploring her body, with the razor held gently in his fingers, cutting her carelessly, its caress almost, if not quite, as vicious as his own, but keeping her weeping even as her tongue fought with his. But not for long. Unable to bear it any longer he pushed her back, his hands sliding between her legs which opened for him so easily that he sneered at her in contempt, enjoying the hurt that flickered briefly in her eyes, turned almost black now with lust. He shuddered to think how he must look to her and pushed the thought away as his hands trembled on the fastenings of his trousers. He was agonisingly hard now and smiled to see her eyes widen. He could hardly enter her quickly enough, and her scream of agony at that first cruel thrust was all he could have dreamt and more. However much she had wanted this, it had been some time and she was so deliciously tight that he knew her suffering must be great. He looked into her face as he pounded into her, drinking in her pain with every brutal thrust. Her eyes brimmed with agony and ecstasy together as he fucked her like a demon, regardless of her pleasure but causing it all the same as he released his own in a feral growl, shooting deep and hot inside her as her screams changed into sighs to match his own.

For a few moments they lay slumped on the floor, his prick still hard inside her as they regained their breath. He groaned gently at the realisation that it hadn't been enough, he still wanted her, more now than ever. Fucking her had not cured his desire, merely whetted it, making it sharper than a razor's edge and twice as painful now he knew how good she felt. A little sigh escaped her that betrayed her happiness, prompting him to slap her hard across the cheek. He was no longer wholly surprised when she smiled, so he hit her again. She moaned softly.

"Like it do you?" he hissed and forced a hand over her mouth so she could not reply. With the other hand he reached to the floor beside him for the razor and held it against her throat whilst he fucked her hard again. And again, and again, growling cries of lust into her ear whilst stifling her own.

He continued to use her for hour after hour, breaking off from fucking her only to rape her beautiful mouth, forcing his prick so deep into her throat as to make her choke and her eyes water, finally pulling out to come across her tearstained face.

Finally, perhaps it was midnight, the clock chimed outside, he disengaged himself, exhausted though barely sated. Her eyes too were heavy, as he turned away more steadily than he felt, leaving her on the floor in the filth, sticky with sweat and blood, the smell and taste of which lingered in his nostrils, on his tongue. He curled his lip at her in what he hoped was something of his old disdain, difficult to muster now, as something in him ached to see how beautiful she looked at this moment, barely dressed and stained with his semen. He flicked the razor casually over his shoulder and into the shreds of her skirt as though it were payment to a cheap tart. If only, he thought, he could stride off now and remain superior, not show her how much he still needed her, but -

"Bring it" he said as he headed to her room, taking possession easily now he had taken it of her. Her bed was his now, he seemed to say, as was she.

But then, as she could have told him, she always had been.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2; Unbreak My Heart_

**Lovett: **

Wait, wait, my love, can't you wait? I do. I shall. I have. So long, all this time, waiting for you. Knew you'd come home one day, come home to me, only me.

She had loved him so long now, she knew she had gone crazy with it. It didn't matter that he was someone else now, he was still the man she had loved.

There was a barber and his wife, and he was beautiful. They had lived above the shop all those years ago. How old had she been? Maybe twenty-something, she didn't quite know. Young for a widow, but not so young. But how sweet and young they were! This couple, too good for their surroundings - or she was at least. Pretty little thing, silly little nit. Made no secret of how superior she felt herself to be over the woman who, after all, owned the room they lived in. Wouldn't ever sully herself to enter the shop unless she really had to; acting like the queen of Sheba in her garret.

But he was different. Different from anyone she had ever known. Smiling and innocent, fresh and foolish. He had spoken to her like she was a lady. The dear boy. Not a bit like his wife he wasn't, often coming in for a pie (they had been better back then), sometimes not even. Sometimes just to talk. More and more she found him coming in of evenings after a hard day, not wanting to burden his dear wife. Seeking comfort in pies and ale and warming himself in her eyes. Such a helpless thing. She found herself enjoying his company, growing almost fond of him.

She wondered at the two of them. On the one hand they seemed so close, his eyes would sparkle when he spoke of his wife and she could see the way he looked at her, as though the sun shone out of her - eyes. More and more it had started to hurt her; at first she had hardly known why -

On the other hand, noises travelled far too easily in this house and there had been nights when she had lain awake listening to the - marital relations, taking place upstairs. Not many nights it was true and she had felt no guilt in listening - rather pity. She had hardly known the act could be so repressed and wondered, looking back, if she had ever heard a peep out of the girl. Such a good little girl, giving into her husband maybe once a month out of duty but far too well brought up to allow herself to feel any improper pleasure in the act.

Yes, she had pitied him and wished there was something she could do to help, there was little she wouldn't have done if he had been ready to accept it. Her suspicions that he was suffering from his wife's virtue being confirmed one afternoon when Lucy had paid her an unexpected visit. She stood just inside the door, visibly turning up her nose as though the place had a bad smell. Well it did a bit but that was beside the point. Mrs. Lovett grinned to herself, how out of place the poor little thing looked, in her pretty pink dress and her pale shining hair.

"Come in for a pie, have you love?"

"No" she sniffed "I have not." She looked down, a little flustered - "But maybe - if you have a little coffee?"

Well la di da. Still, ever obliging -

"Course. You sit yourself down dearie." She noticed the way Lucy peered at the table and chairs first, suspiciously, as though expecting them to be sticky. Well maybe they were a bit but that too was beside the point. She returned with the coffee and her own mug of gin;

"Something troubling you pet?"

The girl looked into her coffee and blushed. A real treasure this one was.

"Mrs. Lovett - " she began falteringly - "I know we don't know each other very well - but I wonder if you could help me -" she blushed harder "You see - it's my husband - he keeps - that is - pestering me -"

She took a swig of gin wondering if her look of Am-I-hearing-this? On her face was as obvious as it felt.

"I don't mean usually" Lucy stammered on, "Usually he's ever so sweet, it's just - oh gosh - oh dear - I don't know how to -"

"It's alright pet, I know exactly what you mean"

"You do? Oh - " rewarding her tact with a look that made it clear she held her in utter disdain for the understanding, still she plunged on - "well you see - I hate to say no - well I mean I - but I don't want to have any more children you see and - and I mean well - it's really not proper - I mean - so - so often, is it?"

Well there was really nothing you could say to that, was there?

"Listen love" she said eventually "There's other things you can do - things as won't lead to babies if that's your wish"

"There are? - but -?"

"Oh yes" The look of horror that washed over Lucy's face as she told her, was priceless.

It was some weeks later that she was visited again. She saw that he was in a bad mood as soon as he walked through the door and could pretty much guess the reason. He had flung himself down at the table peevishly and found a glass of gin in his hand even before asking .

"Want to talk about it love?"

She sat across from him, chin in her hands, fondness in her face, that had been growing all these months into something deeper. How beautiful he was she sighed, thinking it even as he sat there. And there was something just behind his eyes, stronger now than ever. Something she had not expected, flickering, waiting. Something that burned dangerously and sent thrills shooting through her, little sparks that teased and troubled. He must have been bad, he drank the glass down.

"Get you the bottle shall I?" she smiled and set it down in front of him. he reached for it and smiled up at her as he poured. Not his usual, bouncy smile or yet the twisted grin of nowadays but something strange and strained in between. He sighed -

"Mrs. Lovett -" he shook his head "Whatever would I do without you?" she smiled, it was good to hear -

"Oh I don't know -" she said - "Whither and die?"

He chuckled just slightly, but enough, and stared into his glass, seeking reassurance in not quite the right place.

"Want to tell us about it then dearie?"

He sighed again.

"My wife" he said eventually, another glass down "I love her dearly Mrs. Lovett, you know that. But she is so very -" he scowled a little - "Virtuous".

She nodded -

"Ah-"

He took a deep breath.

"Ah indeed my pet, more gin?"

"Anything for you love".

She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't help but be happy. Happy he was here, happy he had come to her for gin and comfort, not to his wife, who gave neither. But she, she would have been more than happy to supply the "comfort" he so desperately needed. If only, if only - she pushed the thought away and plonked the second bottle down. She lingered beside him a moment wanting to - she didn't know - maybe, hug him? he answered the dilemma for her, placing a hand gently on her waist. She closed her eyes to steady herself; he was terribly unused to drink she supposed.

"Mrs Lovett -" he murmured, resting his head against her "My dear, sweet, kind, lovely Mrs Lovett, you - are quite the best of friends."

"There there Mr Barker" she sighed, quite lost, patting him gently on the head. His free arm whipped up and seized her wrist suddenly, in a manner so unlike him - but no - not unlike that look behind his eyes that shone out brightly as he rose, steadying himself with the hand now tightly on her waist, entwining his fingers in his as his eyes blazed fiercely into hers. Her heart beat frantically, so loud to her she was sure he had to hear it, if he could beneath his own. His hold on her tightened and suddenly his lips were on hers, crushing against her, kissing her hungrily, so very hungrily. Her head spun madly and nothing seemed to stay still. She hardly cared if it wasn't her he really wanted, didn't care at all about the wife upstairs, it was her he held now, whose lips he now attacked so ferociously. His hands moved upon her, more demanding, more invasively intimate than any lover she had ever known and she pressed herself against him, feeling his need, letting him know her own as he trailed hot, burning kisses over her throat and breasts; kisses that bruised, as his hands slid under her clothes, touching her like a man half - starved for contact, whimpering sighs of lust against her parted lips.

That was when she had made her fatal mistake. She had opened her eyes and caught his, which had never been closed all this time, drinking in her flesh with a thirst that no gin could quench. First he tore his eyes away from hers -

"No-" he had gasped, a wretched, strangled cry of near despair, wrenching himself away with visible effort. He had gazed at her a moment with a look of such hopeless agony as to shoot his arrow truly and fatally into her heart for good. Then he had turned on her - angrily? - and slammed out of the door. She had sunk down at the table, heart and cunt aching unbearably, and taken another swallow of gin.

He had come back in the next day, a little worse for wear but otherwise hiding once more behind the mask of Benjamin Barker. She had smiled at him as always. He had stammered a little and fiddled with his cravat.

"Love" she had greeted him (if he only knew, she sighed, how she meant it).

"I wanted to apologise, Mrs Lovett -" he mumbled, red faced "That is - for my conduct of last night - I - don't know what came over me."

"Not to worry love" - how cheerful she could make herself sound, however it saddened her to say and to think - "I'm sure it won't happen again." Make it happen again, her mind chanted, please make it happen again.

But it didn't. And only three months later he was gone. And while Lucy mourned away upstairs for Benjamin Barker, downstairs Mrs. Lovett had wept, bereft, for the man who had hidden behind him.

The man she had met for so brief a moment.

The man she loved.

The man whose name she didn't even know.

Not then.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3; Always Morning In My Mind_

**Sweeney:**

Even as Benjamin Barker he had slept fitfully. As Sweeney Todd he had, as yet, felt himself lucky to catch a couple of hours a night. So he was surprised, nay a tad disoriented to find himself waking up with the dawn that morning. It filtered in, grey-gold through the grimy window and rotting lace curtains. Beginning to shake away the sleep of an almost untroubled night he began to look around him.

They were fetid surroundings though he had seen worse, the tattered remnants of a dusty dress on the floor by the bed -

- He remembered now, she had followed him soon after, letting it slip from her shoulders - already in pieces. She had paused by the bed, pale and beautiful, wantonly unashamed of her nakedness. he remembered, half guiltily, how his wife had rarely let him see her naked, always going into another room to change, blushing when he did see her, hiding herself as best she could. Was it any wonder his thoughts had strayed so often to the woman downstairs with her welcoming, sensual smile and dangerous eyes, eyes that seemed to crackle, shooting fire at him and turning his insides to water.

In fact, the only real argument they had ever had had been about her.

"I just don't like the way she looks at you" Lucy had said, timidly; for which it had been easy to read that she didn't like the way he looked at her.

"Don't know what you mean love" he had snapped back at her. It was always difficult to argue with dear Lucy, she wouldn't explain herself, just pout and sulk until he gave in.

How different, he mused, from this one. His eyes came to rest on her, curled up awkwardly beside him. She had tried to find a position that kept the bruises which blossomed over her skin from rubbing painfully against the bedsprings. He could see his own finger prints in the tender flesh of her arms and little red curves where his nails had bitten in. He closed his eyes, trying to block his mind from falling away into memory of the night before and the terrible, delightful things he had done to her. How he had enjoyed making those marks upon her skin. How she had moaned like the whore she was even as he made her scream in pain. How violently he had taken her, over and over, after wanting her for so long.

He hated her, the bitch, doing this to him; making the lust rise within him even now, as she lay, so sweetly, asleep. It was her fault, her magic that tormented him like this . He remembered his need to hurt her, to make her suffer, how she had rendered him unable to torture her as he had wished. How she had dared to take pleasure in his cruelty when he had convinced himself of the distaste he felt for causing her happiness. Well, he would have revenge. He was good at revenge.

He had kept his back to her, he remembered, when she came to bed, elbowing her sharply away when she had tried to curl up behind him. Even so he had woken up to find her in his arms, the witch. Poisoning him with desire, infecting him with insane, unnatural lusts, making him powerless to keep away from her. He drew sharply back, running his eyes over her sleeping form, of course she slept naked, the slut. He had to stifle a groan of pain and need, his prick aching in memory and anticipation of her; watching her breast rise and fall with her breathing, trying to distinguish the bruises and bite marks from the shadows in between. He ran his right hand over her body, committing it to memory, his other entwined in her hair. He kissed her neck and shoulders, the smooth skin and jagged gashes where his nails and blades had cut into her, caressing her almost tenderly, her thighs, her hips, the smooth, hardly yet tormented softness of her arse, his mind beginning to churn with plans and ideas. His caresses grew crueller as his mind seethed - hate her, hate her, hate her, make her suffer, little bitch -

He twisted her hair tightly in his hand, red and warm, sweet as blood upon the pillow, and yanked her head back sharply, waking her with a delightful yelp of pain.

"Morning pet" he muttered, pulling her head back until the tears were squeezed out of her eyes, her scalp tingling, on fire. She murmured something between her gasps, he thought it might have been "Love", but didn't care. He pushed her onto her back, pressing hard on the tenderest, most damaged parts of her arms.

"Think I was done with you already my sweet?" he growled, "Why I've hardly begun". Her eyes were misty, still half closed and she moved slowly, still drowsy from sleep. He took advantage quickly, forcing her legs apart and shoving roughly into her, knowing that she wasn't ready for him, her sob of pain rewarding him for the knowledge.

Once begun it was hard to stop and she continued to sob as he raped her viciously, more than ready to take his pleasure from her without having to give it in return, so sudden was his attack. The soreness inside her was just giving way to pleasure when he withdrew quickly, grinned at her hellishly -

"No you don't" -

- and came across her thighs. She choked on a gasp of sluttish affront and he laughed, pushing her back where he had found her. Turning away from her, chuckling wickedly, he drifted back into contented sleep.

**Lovett:**

She was having such trouble getting back to sleep that after a short while she gave up trying. She had tossed and turned a little but it had caused her such pain as to make the ache between her legs almost unbearable. Anyway, she realised, she was quite awake now and didn't want to go back to sleep. For the first time since she could remember there was more to be gained in being awake. She smiled faintly in spite of, nay in part because of, the waves that crashed inside her, realising that she had been rubbing her thighs together all the while, trembling on the edge of dealing with the ache herself.

But she was so unsure of him still, unsure now as to whether or not he was really asleep or just lying there smirking away to himself evilly, in contemplation of her plight. She could imagine how angry he would be if she were to relieve herself thereof and, whilst the thought sent delicious shudders all through her, she still couldn't quite judge just how far she could press him. The look of lust in his eyes that so delighted her was frighteningly similar to the look of murderous intent it had replaced, that she was cautious lest the one became the other. She had no wish at all to die, not now, when she was happier, even through the fog of desire in her tingling head, than she had ever been.

She took a deep breath, drawing herself together, and got out of bed.

**Sweeney:**

Once she was out of bed and less close to him he felt he could risk watching her as she pulled something out of the wardrobe that was somewhat tattered though at least wearable - something white - he almost laughed, realising that all she had was her underwear and wondering if she would serve customers dressed like that. Still, she rarely failed to surprise him; he wouldn't put it past her.

He kept half an eye on her as she flitted back and forth in the kitchen, on mysterious womanly tasks. He watched with something approaching fondness, the way the weak sunlight shone through her petticoats, clearly outlining the curves beneath in watery gold, noticing the way her hair glinted in the light with little dark flames. He sighed; he simply had more important things to do today than her. The thoughtless, devious little minx! She must feel his eyes upon her and stand just like that to torment him. His eyes fell on the razor by the bed; how easy, part of him said, it would be to slit her throat with it now, to put him out of his misery, turn the white skirts red whilst he took her one last time as the life flowed out of her. Yes. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain; the thought was almost too tempting, and there was so much he had yet to do to her.

**Lovett: **

"What is that?" he sneered, when she came back through with the tray.

"Breakfast, love" she smiled, bowing her head a little, in a manner almost coy, as she placed the tray beside the bed. He raised an eyebrow at her scornfully.

"Oh now, don't tell me you don't want any" she chided "Don't eat enough by half you don't". She began to turn away uncertainly when his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her towards him, twisting her arm with playfully sadistic delight as he did so. He threw her hard onto the bed, springing on top of her, hands buried in her hair, pulling her head back tightly.

"No my dear" he rasped, his voice thick with lust that was music to her ears. " I think you should know what I want by now."

She let out a ragged groan that contained, despite all her efforts to contain it, more longing even than pain. He removed his hands enough to bring them crashing into her face in a torrent of stinging slaps. Even so, she found herself arching her body towards him, disgusted at herself but powerless to stop. He spat at her, an "Ugh" of contempt, and moved his hands away from her, to return quickly, the razor held once more against her throat.

"Whore" he growled, punctuating his words with little nicks of the blade against her neck; "Dirty. Little. Whore. I should kill you now, what do you say my pet?" he slammed a hand against her mouth -

"No answer? Why then that must be a yes". There was real fear flickering in her eyes now. She was unsure, so very unsure of him; for all she knew he would kill her as soon as not and the knowledge of how dispensable she must be to him brought tears to her eyes where his blows did not. Yet he smiled in ecstasy at the fear in her eyes and trailed the blade down, across her skin, making her writhe and whimper shamelessly.

"Do you know what they do to whores like you my dear?" he purred in her ear, "Do you know what happens to sinful little sluts who want it far too much?" she quaked beneath his hands like claws upon her skin, unable to speak.

"There are bits, my love" he went on - "Bits as get cut off" - pressing his fingers hard just there, bringing her close to breaking, "Maybe with a razor -" trailing it dangerously over her inner thighs, barely controlling himself at the sight of true terror in her deep dark eyes.

"-Or maybe not". She watched him lean back and so suddenly come crashing down, slashing violently into her arm, penetrating twice over, pounding into her more viciously than ever as her blood flowed over the sheets and she screamed as she had never screamed before, breaking beneath him, shattering apart like glass.

**Sweeney:**

He lay across her, breathing deeply, face buried in the crook of her arm, licking gently at the blood that flowed from it, better, he thought wryly, than any other breakfast. He groaned in near despair to hear the clock chime for seven, knowing that there was work to be done that would keep them in different rooms for hours to come. He had to stifle a sob as he moved away from her, not only for the loss of contact but in the realisation that, for the first time, he had enjoyed causing her pleasure almost as much as causing her pain.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4; In The Chair_

**Lovett: **

Want you, her mind chanted, over and over like a prayer in her head, want you, need you, love you, my precious sweet, my dear; love me, love me, need me, see me - lighting candles behind her eyes that never went out.

She couldn't help it. She tried so hard and yet she still loved him so much. It still hurt though, tormenting her with questions she could not ask him. She had wanted him to want her for so long - did he, even now? Or was she just there for him, something to use until something better came along?

Yet she was happy, kneeling on the bed, gazing at him, watching him shave, his hands thrilling and fascinating her , wanting them upon her so badly. Watching his movements, so swift and sure, she trembled, thinking how easily he could have killed her at any time. And he hadn't. So he must need her a little - mustn't he?

**Sweeney: **

Wanted her, wanted her so badly, over and over again. Hated himself for wanting her, yes, for needing her. His hands were less sure than they should have been; it should have been her throat the blade was up against, her luscious, pale throat so warm and fragile in his hand. He groaned inwardly, so hard for her again, so afraid that she would notice and mistake lust for caring.

He could feel her staring at him, feel her liquid, whorish eyes burning into him; yet so innocent she was, somehow, like a little child. Anger rose steadily inside him at his own softness; it was almost too easy to transfer it to her.

"What are you staring at?" he spat, "Get out woman, and leave me be."

Was that a pout? She had opened her mouth to speak - how dare she? She was his - he didn't want her of course, but would have her anyway. Because he could.

He turned on her, eyes red with hate, his lips twisting into a smile of terrifying softness. He turned from the mirror, finished; a part of him wanting to smash it into her lovely face and dig the pieces into her flesh. But he advanced on her gently before crushing her throat in his hand and shoving her against the wall.

"Oh my dear Mrs. Lovett" he sighed venomously, pinning her to the wall and caressing her gently whilst battering her with words; "Whatever were you thinking my pet? Did you think perhaps that I might care for you? Indulge little dreams of you and me? Imagine that you meant something to me - anything at all?" Tears brimmed in her eyes, rendering them more beautiful than ever. He spat in her face and flung her aside. "You're nothing to me, remember that. Nothing. My whore that's all; a little thing for me to use until something better comes along. Now get out of my sight."

He realised that he was throwing her out of her own room and had known that she would go. He heard her sobbing in the room beyond and seethed. He wanted only to use her, wanted her to fight it. Wanted to rape her, really rape her, whilst she fought and cried and begged for him to stop. He delighted in the power he had over her, marred only by his inability to make her hate him as he hated her. Hated her for making him feel this way. Hated her beauty, her kindness. Hated her fierce, delightful spirit that reveled in all that he could do to her. Hated her for doing this to him. He closed his eyes as his breathing calmed. It had hurt him to hurt her like that, to leave her in real sadness. But she deserved it, he told himself, for maddening him, for driving him insane with her. Fucking her again and again in his mind he ignored her utterly as he walked out and upstairs. He couldn't look at her for he knew what his look would betray - want you my sweet, my darling, my beautiful one, my precious, my dearest, want you, need you, ache for you, yearn for you, burn for you, hurt for you, need you so my precious love.

**Lovett: **

He couldn't have meant it, that was all; she crow barred the reassurance into her mind as the tears subsided and she began to look around her. The world was waiting and there was work to be done. Her tender, stinging skin made her sensitive to everything and when she heard someone whistling nearby she almost jumped out of her skin.

"Toby!" Guiltily, she realised that she had forgotten about the boy's very presence and wondered where he had been all night; probably passed out on gin somewhere no doubt. "Where you been lad? Gave me a fright you did."

"Sorry mum" the boy grinned up at her; a grin that quickly faded - "What happened mum?" dear boy, so concerned, it took her a moment to realise -

"What -?" oh yes, she must look rather a mess. She hadn't considered it, "It's nothing lad, never you mind."

"Did he hurt you mum?" the boy persisted, eyes flicking to the ceiling, "If he did I'll-"

"Hush now love," she sighed, "Have yourself a pie".

As the boy settled down to a breakfast of gin and yesterday's pies she scribbled down a couple of notes and put them in his hand, giving him the address.

"Yes mum, please mum, but 'ave you got any money for it mum?"

"Go ask Mr Todd now, and give him that one -" indicating one of the notes - "Get along with you now".

"Yes miss" and the boy was gone.

Alone again she washed her wounds with the last of the gin, shivering in tickling pain at the sting. She wondered if any customers would notice that she was working in nothing but underwear and grinned to herself, customers indeed - maybe her lack of clothing would actually get her some.

**Sweeney: **

He stormed up the stairs as though he wanted to break them, hurled himself into the room and slammed the door behind him. He leaned back on it, eyes closed, mind whirling as though with a hundred chattering voices. You need her, they teased, you want her, how she tastes, how she feels, how she screams, why resist? You want her, need her, care for -

"Shut up!" he yelled, seizing the first thing that came to hand and hurling it across the room. There was an explosion of glass against the wall that shattered through the fog in his mind.

It was a good reason to move, to cross the room and see what he had broken this time. A puddle of silvery glass and water, catching in the light. And daisies. She had brought him daisies. He picked the sorrowful little flowers out of the glass, suddenly so sad. he didn't want this, this - tenderness, this surge of feeling almost sharper than desire, biting at him with hot little teeth. How could he; he did not, could not, care for her, to allow himself to feel - no! It was unthinkable. She had maddened him with lust and that was all.

He was still torturing the flowers, pulling them to pieces when the knock came on the door. He stood up quickly and strode over to his chair, trying to look like a man who had not just been playing with flowers.

"Come in"

It was the urchin, rather wary of him he thought and it was a comforting thought.

"Please sir" stammered the brat "Mrs Lovett sir - she asked me to give you this sir."

He took her note with a scowl and read it with a smirk - "That was me only good dress. Sending the boy for new ones. Give him some cash love, I'm strapped. Only your whore, p.s. better give him a good bit, funny how clothes don't last long these days.

He choked back the urge to go straight back downstairs and strangle her. "Only your whore"? Was she mocking him? He almost admired her nerve, foolish though it was of her.

"A moment boy" he scribbled a reply on the back of her note, scooped up the wrecked flowers and gave them to the boy.

"There. And you can tell Mrs Lovett she can keep her flowers. I want nothing from her."

He hated lying.

**Lovett: **

She took the note off the boy, sending him on his way, as though she were a princess accepting a letter from a suitor; though when she had got it she had been clearing away the breakfast things she noticed had mostly been eaten after all. When she hadn't been looking, she supposed. It occurred to her that he must think of her more than he let on, to take such pains to disregard her.

"My dear sweet Mrs Lovett" she read, marvelling at how his pen, like his voice, could drip with sarcasm "Your wish is my command as always, Todd. P.s Bring me flowers again and you won't like where I stick them, my sweet."

**Sweeney:**

It was a difficult morning . After his brush with Pirelli in the days before half of London seemed to have come to regard Sweeney Todd as the best barber in the city. The customers flooded in with thoughtless consistency and no consideration for the throbbing in his prick. Which only worsened when he caught snatches of her singing now and then, surprisingly sweetly, downstairs, leaving him with no time or respite in which to relieve the pain of it. Finally the time rolled on towards midday and the flood abated - of customers at least, not desire. He sank wearily into the chair and waited for her to come up, knowing that she would do so. He agonized about going to her, but could not be so easy on himself or do something he knew so well would gratify her. He felt half insane with anticipation, racked with need, vacant with obsession.

It must have been the latter that she saw when she came through, having knocked gently and entered without waiting for a reply.

"Still brooding then love?"

She was so hard to read, he thought; was that irritation, mild anger, boredom or concern? He didn't reply. Let her work it out herself.

"That judge again" she said with a sigh "Huh".

He paused before replying,

"Mrs Lovett" he sighed, "Did I tell you you were a bloody wonder?"

"Mr Todd?"

He grinned ferociously, she hadn't caught the menace in his voice then.

"I have a problem my pet" - playing with her now - "And what do I do when I have a problem? Why, I believe I seek the advice of my dear Mrs Lovett, with her ever practical and yet appropriate suggestions, do I dot?"

Her forehead crumpled adorably as she tried to work out where this was going;

"Yet here I am, still troubled and for once she fails to come up with the solution. It just won't do my dear". his fingers toyed meaningfully with the buckle of his belt.

"Ah". Understanding shone in her face, like a light and, as he still didn't move from his chair she scuttled to him, dropping to her knees at his feet, a tentative hand on his leg. He smiled to see her, face turned to him adoringly, her lips slightly parted. How easy she was, how disgustingly eager to please. He despised and loved it in almost equal measures. He smiled at her indulgently.

"Oh my dear, how easy you are" she was almost, if not quite, just where he wanted her. He took hold of her by the hair, dragging her to her feet, as he rose himself -

"Really; far too easy" - pushing her roughly into the chair on the last word, moving quickly around to tie her arms to it with the leather straps hanging at the sides.

The satisfaction of having her like this, bound and helpless, her eyes damp but shining as they flickered quickly after him, was unbearably intense. He remembered his promise to torture her, to cause real and terrible pain for as long as he could hold out. Somehow he felt, regretfully, that it wouldn't be for long. Not while the joys of her flesh were still so new. He sprang onto her, eyes blazing, kneeling over her on the chair, crushing her a little probably, but not caring, burying his hands in her hair, kissing her brutally, crushing her mouth beneath his in his demand for her lips. It felt so good just to kiss her, to feel her kiss him back, feel her writhe beneath him, wanting to hold him but unable as she struggled beneath him; breathing in the maddening, intoxicating scent of her; roses and fire, bread and sweat and arousal. He kissed her deeply, hurting her sweet lips with a passion he had never known. In these moments there was no Lucy nor had ever been, and it felt good.

He drew the razor from his pocket to slit her lacings up the front, at least it didn't mean wrecking another dress entirely. His fingers raked at the tender flesh beneath as he kissed her damaged breasts, biting, teasing and tormenting them, loving her taste, her warmth and softness, sweet against his own harsh cruelty. His prick was throbbing, begging to be relieved inside her and he pressed it into her thighs, feeling her squirm, getting damp beneath her skirts, arching towards him in wanton invitation. He wondered if any other woman would allow herself to be treated in this way, wouldn't have him locked away for relenting to these base and degenerate lusts. But, looking into her half closed eyes, hearing her breathy little gasps, he knew that there was always worse he could do to her.

He moved away, unbuckling his belt slowly enough for her to realise his intent, saw understanding leap into her eyes, protests form on her lips as he curled the leather around his hand, allowing her no time to speak before lashing it fiercely across her breasts. He almost exploded with ecstasy at the sound of the belt upon her skin and the piercing scream that followed, but held on long enough to lash her perhaps a dozen more times, crashing hard upon the tenderest parts of her; breasts, belly, thighs, watching the angry welts blaze across her body, her cries ringing through the air as she screamed and screamed, barely able to breath for screaming, but unable to stop. he forgot his own strength sometimes.

Finally, through the screams and the whistle and crack of the belt, he heard the sound he had longed for; her sobbing out pleas for him to stop. He beat her harder a while, pretending not to have heard. She was begging now, tears streaming down her face, it was too delightful. He stopped, needing to fuck her badly now, pausing a second, letting the belt slip before pouncing, pushing her skirts up around her waist. Her legs wouldn't open far like this, but he slammed his burning prick into her quickly all the same, pounding in so violently as to slam her against the back of the chair with ever desperate thrust. Hurting so badly, yet so very wet, she howled - like a little cat he thought, like the dirty little animal that she was. He beat into her viciously, spurred by the pleasure of hearing her growls of pleasure begin to match his own as she joined him, screaming in release. God, but they'd kill each other one of these days; he had hardly known it was possible like this or could feel so good.

He rested his head on her breast in momentary peace, calming his own breathing and listening to her whimpers subside,

"Hurt you a bit did I pet?" he murmured, smiling. She closed her eyes, blissfully,

"Yes Mr Todd".

He kept her in the chair for maybe three hours, mostly ignoring her, watching out of the window for his other prey. Or pretending to, sometimes one sometimes the other. At intervals he would fuck her and admire his artistry as the patterns calmed upon her skin. She didn't know that he could see her reflected in the window he pretended to look out of, musing on how terribly happy she made him, hoping to god that she didn't know.

Eventually he released her and sent her to fetch drink. When she returned he found himself permitting her cautious, almost chaste embrace as she rested her head briefly on his shoulder. He shook her off quite gently, his mind quite peaceful, scheming, wanting to kill -

"Why doesn't the judge come?" he asked.

She told him to wait.

Soon enough he saw the vermin just outside and kicked her out of the room. She hardly cared, she was almost content.

**Sorry for the delay in posting more of this - i just had to make a list of all my fanfic projects they're becoming so numerous - and since this is one i finished long ago and is just a rewrite I keep neglecting it. I'm so sorry - i am still so fond of this story!**


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